


Bastard Bride

by Happy_Cow



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Breastfeeding, Breeding Kink, Cunnilingus, Darkfic, Death in Childbirth, F/M, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Kylo is like 'sure why not', Loss of Virginity, Miscarriage, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Older Man/Younger Woman, One Shot, Painful Sex, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Pregnant Sex, Size Kink, Submissive Rey (Star Wars), Survivor Guilt, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:14:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24214999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Happy_Cow/pseuds/Happy_Cow
Summary: After the sudden death of Lady Kira, Kylo Ren instead takes her younger half-sister as his bride, as is his duty and his birthright.
Relationships: Maz Kanata & Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 94
Kudos: 350





	1. Chapter 1

The smell of rose water, the touch of silk, the droning voices reverberating against the vaulted ceiling. These are the things that occupy her immediate attention. These are the only things that exist. 

The vice on her arm tightens. Her back straightens, and she draws a surprised breath that clears out the spots in her vision. Her pupil roves to the margins of her eye, taking in the dark shape of _him_ standing beside her. He looms like an obelisk, eyes trained beyond the priest and beyond the walls of the church. His grip loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let her go.

That’s right, she realizes. Today, at this very moment, she is getting married.

  
  


The priest asks the audience if anyone objects to this union. There is a fluttering of wings in the rafters from the resident pigeons. Then the priest begins to drawl out vows; _he_ mutters _I do_ with a scoff. Rey likewise agrees but to worse terms: obedience, the bearing of children.

The ceremony ends to music. The gentle humming of string instruments.

.

For the first time in her life, food is laid before her and she has no appetite for it. If it had four legs or wings or scales, someone killed it and plopped it on the long table. There is a whole suckling pig with an apple in its mouth, and there is also a swan: living things reduced to shriveled, basted corpses.

A bark of laughter. His family is seated on his side of the table: Lady Organa, Uncle Han, Ser Skywalker. A tall, thickly bearded man sits next to a very ebullient, very _loud_ Uncle Han, who is deep into his cups. At least _someone_ is happy. 

Han guffaws loudly at nothing in particular, while Lady Organa tries to hush him. Ser Skywalker gazes solemnly into the air in front of him, perhaps reminiscing about all of the dragons he put to death. It’s a handsome family, and a storied one — one that many girls would dream of marrying into.

Then, she glances up at _him._ There is the way his jaw sets in a hard line, when he is angry. He turns, suddenly, his dark eyes locking to hers. Immediately, she turns her attention to her full plate. To enhance the act, she raises her thin wrist and pokes at a piece of ham with her fork. Just when she thinks she’s fooled him, a large, warm hand settles on the small of her back. She straightens in her seat, feeling the heat of his hand against her skin — the only barrier being thin fabric.

‘What?’ she blurts out. He had been speaking, just now.

The man’s nose flares. With his hand steadied on her back, he leans in until his voice is in her ear: “You should eat.”

Rey shakes her head, and feels the elaborate baubles in her hair and ears tremble. Gods, if they were to fall into someone’s soup or onto the floor, would they flog her?

She hears a small snort. It takes a moment for her to register this: he’s smiling. “What - what’s so funny?” she murmurs, her hands wandering protectively over the pearled net that held back her hair.

“What are you doing now?” he asks, still smiling.

“Are all the - the _jewels_ \- still in place?”

“Yes, little scavenger. All of your pretty ornaments are still in place; no one has stolen them.”

Her face grows hot. He thinks this is an exercise in _vanity_. “I’ll have you know that I find these stupid things to be heavy,” she mumbles, touching the netting. “And this dress is hot and uncomfortable.”

“Then we should remove them as soon as possible.”

She nods in agreement.

“I am wondering why _now_ , of all days, you’re uninterested in stuffing yourself.”

“I’m not very hungry.” He snorts in disbelief. “I can be not-hungry.”

“You are always hungry. If not now, then later, and then you’ll make _me_ suffer all the more for it. You should eat.”

Rey narrows her eyes. “Your plate is also full,” she argues.

He looks at his plate as if he’s seen it for the first time, then takes his spoon and scoops a ludicrous amount of meat pie into his mouth. Rey watches in horror and fascination as he cleans off his plate. At last, he grabs his cup and tips its contents into his mouth. His throat contracts obscenely with the volume of its contents.

“I shall be _sick_ ,” Rey declares haughtily, in a perfect imitation of her sister. 

But now she vividly remembers who is missing from this wedding. That sense of loss yawns inside of her. It is her sister who should be here, in her place. Rey is an imposter.

His lips are stained in sauce, even after he swipes the back of his hand over his mouth. He sways in his chair, before reaching over and swiping her cup from off the table. She leans back in surprise, after seeing the cup offered to her lips. Its contents are a deep, viscous red in the light. “ _Drink_ ,” he orders. She shakes her head lightly, feeling the tug of so many precious stones in her hair. 

“You will need it.” His breath is hot, and sour from the recent drink. 

“I would like to - to remain alert for the rest of this day, my lord,” Rey says politely.

He answers, “No, you won’t.” A moment’s pause. At his side of the table, a man guffaws and belches simultaneously. “I won’t.” He arches his head and downs her drink in one smooth motion.

The pomp of the earlier wedding begins to fizzle out. Someone summons the band from before to play, and Han Solo harasses the flutists for several rounds of his favorite song. Lady Organa and Ser Skywalker are missing from the table. For the first time, Rey notices two men who had slipped inside the hall: a tall and ancient old man, and the other a younger man in a neat tunic. The latter’s red hair glints in the lights from the sputtering lamps. Try as she might, she can’t place their faces, both turned towards her. They watch her until she turns away, unnerved. 

“Kylo?” She raises a hand and tugs at his sleeve. His head swivels on the stalk of his thick neck. A blush colors the bridge of his nose. His dark eyes struggle to focus on her.

Suddenly, she recalls her manners. “Please,” she says, “I would like to be excused from this table, my lord.”

He tilts his head at her, shaggy hair falling over his eyes. The legs of his chair screech against the stone floor as he stumbles to his feet. The air around him reeks of drink, as though he’s been sweating it out.

“Everyone!” cries the man. But Han has just roused another round of that song out of the exhausted band. The flutes and horns bravely squawk over the straining voice of their liege lord. Thusly, the Lord Ren grasps his mug and whips his arm at the wall behind. The crash of ceramic pierces the air. Silence follows.

The Lord Ren claps his large hands and, with a glance at the two strange men, he says, “I thank you all for this... _happy_ , ceremony.” His tongue roams around the insides of his mouth as he fishes for the right words. _He’s not sober enough to be making speeches_ , Rey thinks. Although even sober, he’s never been a great orator...

Just as well, that the older man rises from his seat, and speaks: “Seeing as how this is the Lord and Lady’s _first_ marriage, perhaps they are unfamiliar with the _old_ custom.” It’s a low, reverberating voice, one that Rey didn’t expect from such an old creature. Rey wonders who he is; she is not reassured by her husband’s complacent nodding. 

“Although, Father,” chimes the redhead, “I dare say this is an uneven circumstance. The Lady has no mother, no sisters, no aunts!” Ah, he’s talking about her. Rey smooths her palms over her dress and glances around. Her side of the table had been graciously filled out by her husband’s men: the Knights, stewards, strangers. The hall is filled, now, with his men. As she looks at each of them, they in turn look at her — men, of varying degrees of color and dress and inebriation. Her few servants have long since fled the depredations of these honored guests.

A guttural voice barks from the direction of the band: “Oh, _shut up_.” Han. Han glares at the redhead, and raises an accusing finger. “If nobody’s gonna touch my son, then nobody’s gonna touch the girl.”

“But custom dictates -.”

“Fuck ‘customs’,” Han retorts. “Fuck these ‘customs’. If my son is the King now, then he can fuck these customs.”

“Han, be _quiet_ ,” Lord Ren announces. He stands at her side, his hands latched onto the bottom of the table. He turns, in deference, to the old stranger. 

The old stranger smiles, and says, “This was the way of your grandfather. When you are king, would you turn against this?”

“No, Father Snoke,” Lord Ren announced.

“Are you better than the ways of Darth Vader?”

He leans over the table, no longer swaying no longer drunk: “I am no better than the old ways.” 

Han Solo turns away in disgust. “Very well then,” hums Father Snoke.

“GRAB HER!”

Rey blinks. “What-.” Her chair screeches out from under her. She’s yanked out of her seat by her wrists. A large hand grips the delicate neckline of her dress before ripping it down.

Rey screeches, tries to peel away the hands squeezing her small breasts and her tummy, before recognizing the jeering face of one of his Knights. “Kylo, help!” she wails. She bawls for him, but he only has eyes for that horrible old man down the table. 

The pretty train of her dress is stepped and tripped over, until it’s ripped clean off her waist and trampled in the wake of the party. Rey digs her nails into the arm of the Knight and claws a red line into his skin. 

“FUCK! Bitch,” the Knight howls, before spitting in her face. He hands her off to someone else and retreats behind the party. There’s a bark of laughter over the others, a flash of red: the younger man is following them. 

“If you find that funny, wait til I get my hands on you,” she promises.

The men crow and heft her in their arms, palming her ass.

“You’re going to be a handful, aren’t you,” he muses aloud. Someone counters ‘barely a handful’ and Rey hopes that she will be able to execute every man in her castle after this night. Only Han shall be spared for Lady Organa’s sake, but Han is on thin ice. 

They carry her to his bedchambers and unceremoniously dump her onto the thick carpet. The door closes groans shut, snuffing out the evil rancor of the outside world. It is dark. The carpet is thick, and furry, and it smells sour. Rey can hear her own heavy breathing in her ears and she takes a shuddering breath, rubbing her face into the carpet. It’s comforting, in the way a child hugs a stuffed doll. Behind her, the door creaks open, and several sets of footsteps let inside.

A breathy exhale of words. Then, light blooms in the margins of the room, followed by heat. She turns her head to see a warm, bright fire in the hearth. 

“ _Lovely_.” Her jaws lock together. She slips her arms beneath her chest and raises her head. The old man stands away from her, in silhouette. His pupils glint, pinpricks in the sockets of his eyes.

She pushes herself to a sitting position, and asks, “What are _you_ doing here?” 

“You will address the Father with more respect,” bites _him_. Rey freezes. She turns her head a fraction, to see the shape of her husband turning the logs in the fire. His voice is toneless and hoarse. “Get _up_ , Rey.”

“Why is _he_ here?” she asks her husband.

He stops and pins her down with a withering glare mapped with broken veins. “He is here because our union requires _witness_. Get on the bed.” Rey shrinks in her seat. Her husband is restless now, patience run out. He lunges, hooking his hand beneath her armpit and throwing her onto the bed.

“He has - he has to leave,” Rey whines. Her husband stands over her, hitching up his shirts and loosening the waist of his high-waisted trousers. He is bigger than she ever recalled.

“No one is leaving,” he sighs. “Relax, and... it will be over.” Dark hair trails down from his navel, then his manhood springs free from the waist of his pants. It is a large, angry piece of flesh, flushed shades darker than his porcelain skin. Rey pales — she’s seen the castings of geldings and figured that men would not be much bigger, but she cannot fathom how her husband’s piece will fit inside her. The maids have clumsily described this to her using words like ‘snake’ and ‘flower’, and then told her that she’ll be Queen after. As he palms it in his giant hand, a whimper escapes her lips. “I know,” he murmurs, looking down.

Rey paddles away from him, but he pursues, crawling onto the bed after her. Decency is forgotten in favor of self-preservation; for this reason, her husband leans down, his lips grazing the rosy bead of her exposed nipple. Rey shivers and goes hot, her vision unfocusing out of pure shock.

Unguarded, he places his face beside hers. His free hand pushes her thighs apart, warm and heavy fingers settling upon _that_ place. A quiet fear seethes inside of her, and she wraps her arms around his neck. A stream of protest pours from her mouth — _stop Kylo, please stop_ — but he hushes in her ear. ‘ _You’re doing so well_ ,’ he murmurs. His fingers move in a gentle arch and she squeaks, before having the good sense to bite her lower lip. ‘ _My sweet girl._ ’

He calls her sweet girl and love and heart and flower until she can’t hear, until she’s rubbing her cheek against his wet temple, breathing in the oily scent of his hair. His fingers work until she can feel the bands inside herself squeezing, squeezing — and then he stops.

Rey blinks, wearily. The spell is broken. She bucks her hips, seeking that pleasure she lost. As he repositions himself, she mistakenly glances behind him to see the old man leering at him, lips pulled back in a yellow smile. She looks down at the turgid, flushed organ between herself and her husband. 

The fear surges in. “No, Kylo,” she whines. She grasps his wet face, his hair plastered against his gaunt cheeks. His glassy, bloodshot eyes meet hers. “Kylo! _Please_ —.”

His mouth silences her. Rey squeals, feels the clack of teeth against teeth. He releases her a moment with a wet pop, and then sets upon her again. The head of his snake pokes at her flower, and then he’s braced her against the bed, shoving it in.

It _hurts_ — Rey bursts into the tears that she’s suppressed for this long. It hurts and she is stuffed like the little suckling pig at their wedding feast. The beast groans into her mouth, heedlessly shoving its pike inside of her. She doesn’t care anymore and she claws at his fine clothes, fingers seeking purchase on his clothed back and then his hair and face.

She is impaled upon Lord Kylo. He’s hurting her and he doesn’t care. He never has. No one has.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

It fills her with such fear.

The spring of the wedding had turned into a bright and burning summer. Her thin belly began to swell and become hard, and her small breasts too grew in size and hurt to the touch. The women that Kylo installed for her could not console her; she did not recognize her own body.

It is difficult for her to hold down food. Even the scent of meat will bring back the thought of the stuck and desiccated pig and her stomach would turn. The ladies-in-waiting had combed out a great swathe of brittle hair from her scalp.

Her own husband is repulsed by her. He has not touched her since that first night and they do not share a bed. When they are face to face, before the court, he will smile and touch her shoulder. He has no time for more. 

In the months preceding, he spent most of his waking hours with his Knights or with Father Snoke. Now the castle seethes with the ‘news’ that Kylo Ren had killed one of his own knights in a duel, but Rey can’t believe it. Those men are his brothers-at-arms; while Kira was to be his bride, he once regaled his little sister-to-be of tales of the Knights’ oathtaking and their honorable deeds. Rey dismisses it as one more horrid, borderline treasonous rumor, like the ones claiming the Father to be an alchemist, or Kylo Ren to be a changeling.

She looks at him now, as he leaves his war room. He is swarmed by his war council — Rey recognizes almost none of their faces. None of them are her father’s men. Among them is a tall, pale woman who stands a head taller than all the others. She is another friend of the good Father Snoke: the Lady Phasma.

Kylo Ren smiles warmly and shares a brief few words with the men as they disburse. The woman is the last to leave, but not after one last look at Rey where she stands in a recess in the hall. Kylo Ren raises his head, and he turns to look at his wife.

The smile on his mouth fades. His Adam’s apple bobs as he walks towards her. His expression is drawn and shadows ring his eyes. Before the council, he had just returned from some exercise and he still wears his armor’s pauldrons on his shoulders. They make him look larger.

He looks her over, as well, and she lowers her eyes.

“You have been asking for me,” he says. Rey nods. “May I know the reason why?”

She falters. 

But he does not have the time. When he speaks, his tone is clipped, annoyed, even. “Will you give me a hint of what ails you?” he says. “Or must I play word games to discover what it is?” He makes a rolling motion with his wrist and he says, “Out with it, child. There are things to do.”

Ah, it seems that he is too busy for her. The last thing that Rey wants to do is inconvenience him. Her knees begin to tremble and she lowers her head, ashamed.

He swears. He turns and begins to walk away when at last her voice crawls up her throat: “I can’t feel it move.” There is a pause. Rey feels a stinging in her eyes. She repeats the words again and notices her hands are clutching at her swollen belly. The shame that she feels is immense: the birthing of children is supposed to be women’s business. If there are problems, then they are the mother’s cross to bear, not her husband’s. Not her king’s. 

Rey expects a verbal barb, or a full-on dismissal. He is far too busy to deal with a girl in hysterics. So she flinches, when she feels a large hand smooth over her back. She feels something brush the crown of her head.

“D’you think, it’s...” she begins, but she cannot finish the thought.

He places a hand over hers, over her stomach. His thick fingers encompass hers. After a moment, he sighs through his nose. He says, “He will be just fine.”

Her brow furrows. She steps away from Kylo and turns her gaze up to his face, her fingers still clutching his hand against her stomach. A small voice inside her head wonders how could he know, except Kylo Ren knows everything; he always has. He can read from texts and he has traveled on many adventures with his Knights. He has seen men made of metal and men covered in head to toe with hair, and strange beasts in strange lands. Kylo Ren is older than her by a span of fifteen years and stronger for it; he has probably known many women and their business, and she uses this knowledge to smother that feeling that something terrible is going to happen. At this, she releases his hand, and it slowly lowers to his side.

“They tell me,” he says, “that you do not eat. Once you begin to eat, again, then the baby will move.”

“I‘ll try,” Rey murmurs. That sounds very correct, the baby needs her to eat. 

He nods his head. “I leave this castle at dawn tomorrow,” he says. “I will be gone for a month. You should not go wandering off alone; what if an assassin found you? How would anyone protect you?” he snaps in hushed tones.

Rey duly accepts the chastisement. She thinks, to herself, how Kira would easily know these things. Kira would enjoy the company of the ladies-in-waiting, would indulge in poetry games, would enjoy discussing fashionable dresses and the secret meanings of colors and flowers. Kira would know the details of childbirthing. Kira would tolerate the constant company of interchangeable nobles and soldiers who stand there protecting her as they have always done, instead of some elevated bastard sister. Kira would know how to look upon her husband without wincing and cringing like a beaten dog.

So absorbed is Rey in thoughts of her sister, that she only barely hears her lord’s murmured command: “I want to see you, one last time, before I take leave.”

She falters. Nervously she raises her eyes from the carpet. She trains her eyes on the lower half of his face, his lips set in a firm line. 

“Tomorrow I leave to protect you and our child,” he says and he takes a step towards her. Her gaze drops and his voice sharpens in her ear. “For my service I have asked for nothing from you, and you have given me nothing. I have fulfilled the vows that I’ve taken, but have you fulfilled yours?”

Her brow furrows and she blinks rapidly to keep away the urge to cry. What vows, she wonders fretfully. There were suddenly so many oaths and vows, so many calls to honor and chivalry for knights and ladies, but normally they didn’t mean much they were just words. The Knights of Ren did not ‘Defend oppressed women,’ at least not any more; and no one was strong enough to hold them to these pretty words. Did he mean the wedding vows? 

“Th-the baby?” she murmurs, clutching her stomach. She thought that the thing growing inside her had fulfilled the body of her duties; what else had she neglected? Only Kira would know for sure...

There is a long pause. Then he leans down, until she can feel his hot breath in her ear. He, too, places his hand against her swollen belly. “After your supper, take yourself to my room,” he murmurs. He straightens abruptly and walks off, forever towards the business of being king. Rey watches him leave, and she wonders if she will ever be worthy of him.

.

The day dissolves. The castle seethes in a flurry of activity as the knights and soldiers prepare for leave. There is no carnival air, no grand feasting to see the party off; to do so would require Kylo Ren and his Knights to drink and break bread in the same hall. There is a rift driven between them. Instead, a grim air settles over the evening.

Rey forces herself to drink a thin meat broth and a crust of bread. She wishes to hide herself someplace dark, and pretend to be the little bastard girl she used to be. But she would be found, of course, and she would shame not only Kylo but also the memory of Kira, God rest her soul. If Rey ran away, she would prove herself to be a complete disappointment. 

Not for the first time since her wedding night, she seeks out her husband’s room. The door is closed, but this time she is compelled to rap her knuckles lightly against the wood. There is a long pause, so long that Rey suspects that nobody is inside. But then the door unlocks and swings inwards. A dark, baleful eye peers out. 

Once he looks her over, the door opens. The pauldrons are gone from his shoulders. He wears a loose silk shirt, open at the chest, and dark trousers. He sways on his feet, before reaching out and grabbing her arm. Roughly he tugs her inside, before shoving the door closed behind her. His attention is centered on the door; he paces the room, before grabbing a wooden chair and forcing it at an angle between the knob and the floor. The legs grate against the floor as he forces the chair to fit. When he is done, he places his hands on his hips and steps back to admire his work, before turning to her. The fire in the hearth dances in his eyes. A flush colors the bridge of his nose and the tips of his ears. As he looks at her, a smile crawls up his long face. 

Rey feels a pang of some emotion as she realizes that he is drunk, again. It’s as if he needs the drink to touch her. Oh. She looks down and she sees the animal pelt laid out on the floor, and the canopied bed behind her. Dread squeezes its hand around her throat. Everything is the same. Everything is the same. Her wedding night is going to happen again.

He is saying something to her. He moves with a nervous energy and talks in a flood of words, raking his fingers through his hair. “Were you followed,” is what he’s asking her now.

Rey frowns, and she shakes her head. Her husband is suddenly in front of her and he grabs her by the shoulders. He is too close, his body is flush against the swell of her belly. Rey feels a jolt of fear. She looks up to his plush lips which are only an acrid breath away from hers.

“If I fall, then you will fall with me,” he says. “So don’t you ever think of leaving me.” She tries to pull away but he squeezes hard enough to test the bone in her arms. He’s threatening me, she thinks, tears in her eyes. He will kill me if I disappoint him. “Swear to me, again. That you will be faithful, to me. That you will conceive only my children. I won’t let you go until I hear it, from your lips.”

Yes of course. Dumbly Rey parrots the words that Kylo Ren recites to her, without actually hearing them. 

Some men lose themselves in drink, and Rey is scared that her husband is one such man. She squeezes her hands into fists and turns her head down to her stomach as he makes his own wine-fueled vows. When he is done, his grip loosens, and at once he steps away from her. He spreads his arms and falls backwards on the bed, a smile on his face. He raises his hand and makes a beckoning motion towards her. 

Rey hesitates, wringing her dress in her hands. 

He lifts his head and fixes her with a hungry stare. “Come here,” he says in a dry voice. “Comfort me, little scavenger.”

The girl struggles to find her own voice. “Will it — hurt the baby?” she asks.

He smiles, and he sits up in bed, propped up by his arms. “I can be gentle,” he offers. Then he tilts his head. He reaches over and grabs one of the silk pillows, before placing it on the floor between his spread legs. He tells her to kneel there.

The ‘little scavenger’ is not so graceful anymore, not so lithe, but Kylo places her hands on his thighs to help her lower her knees to the floor. She can smell his every breath, and feel the warmth emanating off his body. He clucks his tongue as he slides off his trousers, so familiar is the sound, until the length of his manhood is exposed. 

The column of it stands at attention, flushed an angry shade of red up to the flared tip. Now that it is in front of her, she shrinks back in trepidation. It has its own salty musk.

“Give me your hands, sweetling.” He wraps his own hand around his length and gives a few jerks. Her own hands raise to meet his, and at his instruction she wraps her hand around the shaft, and with the other hand she cups the two sacks beneath the base of the organ. Rey breathes shortly through her nose, trying not to smell. She can feel the heat beneath her fingertips, the roughness of his coarse hairs. At his short instruction, she begins to move her hand up and down.

The girl is hesitant; if she hurts him, she will surely be executed. Short, stuttered breaths spit out of his mouth. “Faster,” he urges. Uncertain she squeezes the shaft in her hand and pumps him faster, and a thick liquid spurts out from the head. Rey flinches. Kylo lets out a low groan. 

He braces his hands on the bed; his fingers dig rivulets in the bedsheets. “Kiss it,” he blurts out. Rey looks up to his face; his eyes have glazed over, his lips are flushed red. “Put your mouth on my cock,” he snaps.

She stops stroking him, and leans in, until her lips press into the course side of the shaft. It is a chaste kiss, like the ones she placed upon his cheek when he was to be her brother-in-law. On her mouth it leaves behind a sticky residue, that which had dribbled out from the head. Her first instinct is to lick it away, but it is no sticky sweet syrup — it is nothing she wants to taste. This is not so difficult, if she does not think about it. 

“Take it in your mouth,” he urges. 

She raises her head and obeys, placing the tip into her mouth. Her tongue runs along the underside. Her husband shudders in her mouth. It is difficult for the girl do everything at once, so she is about to take her mouth off of him, when she feels fingers tangle into her scalp. 

He pivots his hips towards her and Rey chokes, sputters as his piece rams down her throat. Tears come to her eyes. “Breathe through your nose,” he orders. Rey pushes against his thighs, but his hand in her hair keeps her in place. She wants to stop, she wants to spit it out and run out of the room and hide someplace in the dark and summery gardens outside but she cannot, she is trapped. The only path before her is to submit. 

She breathes through her nose as her husband thrusts himself into her mouth. She does not think about it. If she does not think she cannot taste or smell it; she exists only to comfort her husband and wait for it to end. So she waits and waits, until it thickens in her mouth, and then releases its load down her throat. She swallows it, she has no choice; he holds her head, it is either swallow or choke.

His softened piece spills out of her mouth. It drips a trail of seed as he carefully tucks it away in his trousers. Kylo Ren, her husband and king, breathes deeply through his mouth, his face obscured by his long hair. He pulls his legs away from her and lays himself out on the bed. 

Rey is unsure of what to do with herself. She is dirty and she has no loose nightclothes to change into; she has knelt on the floor. Her mouth tastes salty. It hurts to breathe. 

At last her husband turns to her, and fixes her with a tired, red-rimmed eye. In a soft voice he asks, “Do you wish to leave?”

What answer does he want from her? She is unsure of what will happen; he could turn her out like a dog at this moment, and the entire castle would see her drooling cum down her dress. The bards would sing to that forever.

Kylo Ren regards her for a moment. He turns to the fire, and he says, “Get off the floor.” She places her hands on the bed to push herself off her knees. She clutches her belly to steady herself.

He sits on the edge of the bed and places his hands on her shoulders, turning her around. Rey feels a jolt of new fear as his fingers intwine with the lace knots. The sleeves of the dress loosen and fall down her shoulders. He pulls it down from her arms and pushes the dress to the floor. His breath quickens but he says nothing, instead tangling his hands in the simple bun that holds her hair, so that it falls down her back.

He pulls her into his bed. It’s warm from his body, and the mattress carries his smell. Once again she cannot breathe, cannot think. She feels the hardness of his body brush against her naked bottom and a whimper escapes her lips. Not again, please not again, my lord.

He pushes a finger into her hard nipple, so that it sinks into her breast. His other hand slides down her stomach, down there but she does not want it. Unthinking she swats his hand to keep it from touching her down there. She doesn’t care anymore, she doesn’t care if he beats her or has her flogged. Instead, his hand retreats, before settling on her hip.

He pulls her closer to him and hushes into her hair. “No, my sweet girl,” he murmurs, as he wraps his arms around her body. “It will wait until morning.” She cannot escape him; one hand wraps around her belly, and the other cups her naked breast and massages it gently. “I am proud of you,” he says. “You are so, so good, little one.” 

He talks to her now. He calls her every sweet name given to small children and pets. She is his sweetling, his star, his beauty, his desert flower his love. He cannot wait for the morning, he says. Rey cannot escape his tender embrace and she is tired, so tired of resisting him, so she settles on her side to give her belly a place to lay and lets him squeeze and caress her however he pleases. His voice is a gentle lullaby and her thoughts drift, to the turns of fate that brought her to this place. 

She thought of the bright burning desert and the smell of horses and her first sight of the beautiful castle. She thought of the tourney days, of bright flowing banners and pennants, of Kylo Ren and Kira racing side by side on their horses, sharing kisses. She thought of Kira laughing and crying, surrounded by a gaggle of her friends, and then the beautiful funeral in which all the castle mourned for months on end. Then Rey feels him stir behind her, and she wonders.

Would Kylo have touched Kira in these ways? 

Would Kira have allowed it? Rey didn’t think so. 

Lady Kira was strong and proud and beautiful... whereas Rey was just a bastard daughter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would be the climax of Rey's imposter syndrome; also pls mind the new tags!  
> Also pls tell me if this chapter/story feels 'done' enough, like a _steak_

It was a time of miracles. At the same moment the king struck down the traitor Ser Skywalker, the doors to the crypt blew open. In the pale white dress she wore in death, Kira Palpatine once more walked

through the halls of her father. Her skin flushed with the colors of youth, and her hair unbound trailed behind her back as lustrous as starlight. Her eyes shone as bright as amethysts. The servants and knights that beheld her cried in astonishment and fell to their knees.

At once Rey was pulled from her room, and thrown into the dungeons until the moment the _king_ returned. When he did, she was dragged before them and brought to the foot of their thrones. It had been months since she set eyes on her husband, and less than a year since her sister. Kylo Ren could hardly look at her, he had only eyes for his once-departed love. His eyes shone with a tenderness that Rey had thought dead and forgotten until now. Lady Kira was so beautiful, _too_ beautiful that memory paled. They each wore crowns on their heads and the regalia of king and queen. Only Kira looked at her fallen sister; her perfect brow creased with concern.

 _Rey_ , she said. At this, Kylo turned to his wife and there was open _scorn_ in his expression. Their hands were intertwined between them. 

Rey was struck dumb and mute by what was happening before her. Her body pulsed, from a pain that went beyond the pangs of hunger. Her body felt slicked with sweat, heavy and sick from her condition and worsened by time in the damp and dark of her cell.

Words poured forth from Kira’s full lips. _Do you know what you are_ , asked her sister. _Do you know what you have done?_

Rey swallowed. She whimpered but not a sound came out. She could not push herself from the floor, her body too heavy for her to bear.

Those amethyst eyes narrowed in sympathy. Of course they both knew her crime: Rey had _stolen_ the life that her sister was meant to have. She had stolen her crown, her maids, and her husband. She had stolen the honor to serve her husband and to carry his child, and to comfort him in his time of need. His contempt was deserved — _all of it_ , _deserved_.

 _Do you know_ , said Kira, sadly, _the punishment for such a crime?_

A tremor shook Rey’s body. Already she could feel the piercing of her body, the racking pain. The punishment: to be stripped of all clothing and locked into a barrel, to have long nails driven into the sides, and then to be rolled down a hill. 

The throne room narrowed to her husband and to her radiant sister. There was no love in his eyes for her or for his own child, growing in her burgeoning stomach. All of this, the wedding, the vows, the pregnancy — all for naught. She felt as though she were falling.

.

“Rey!?”

At the sound of her name, she startles awake. She does not understand where she is or even who she is, only that she is scared and wet. From the guttering light of a fire, she can make out several forms standing over her. _Assassins_ , cries a voice in her head and she spasms in alarm. Her arms lash out and one of the assailants retreats with a girlish scream. She hears the suggestion of milk of poppy.

“ _No_!” A voice rings out. A large, wizened face appears at her side. At first Rey sees the horrific visage of a demon. Then her eyes adjust to the weak fire in the hearth; in that same face, she spies age lines and small, shrewd eyes. “Lady,” the old crone says, in a low and slightly accented voice, “it is time.”

Rey blinks, disoriented. _What’s time_ , she asks, but her tongue is a thick, soft _slab_ in her mouth. 

The crone mutters sharply, her tone suggestive of a curse word. “ _Get more cloths_!” she snaps at a waiting servant girl. Then she turns to Rey, and she takes the girl’s limp hand in her damp, wrinkled claws. “It is time for the baby to come out,” she says.

A woman smooths a cold, wet cloth against Rey’s forehead. Then the pure _fear_ of it roils inside of her; she shakes her head.

“ _Yes_ ,” says the crone, squeezing her hand tightly. 

Rey had been told time and time again that the baby was not due until months later, once the trees have begun to take color. Now all is thrown into confusion. Terrified, Rey asks for her husband and then for her friends Rose or Finn or even Poe, for she recognizes none of the faces in the room. The crone assures her that they are looking for Rose, then frowns in open contempt at mention of the _king_. 

Suddenly her body heaves in great spasms. Rey sobs openly. It feels like a thing beyond her power, but the old woman insists that she _push_ , and _push_. There is nothing else but to obey. She can push or she can resist and perish midway; her body decides for her.

Perhaps an hour or a day passes. She has been pushed into dire straits before; she was born into slavery and she has felt the ache of a long-empty stomach, but this trial drains her of her endurance and saps bit by bit at her stubborn will to survive. So exhausted is she, that she fails to hear the alarmed scream of one of the servants. A disturbance ripples along the room, but Rey falls beyond it. From far away the old woman talks in soothing tones to her, before wiping chilled sweat from off her brow. 

“You’ve done it,” she breathes in her ear. “It is _done_ , _Rey_.”

Rey feels her body slacken. _Is it really over?_ she wonders.

“Yes, my child,” replies the old crone. “Rest, now.”

.

Rey is sick for the next week, but it is not the sickest she has ever been. She learns the name of the head midwife — Maz Kanata, who, while standing upright in the light of day, stands slightly above the height of a grown woman’s waist. She was brought from a far off land where her bronzed skin and height are common to her people. When Rey asked her if the _king_ had visited her land, Maz Kanata’s expression twisted into a lined map of contempt. Bitterly she retorted, _He is not my king_. Rey did not push the matter further, for both their sakes.

Rey is visited at her bedside by her good friends, Finn and Rose. It had been a long time, but they were her friends when she was only a bastard daughter and they are her friends _now_. The few attendant servants present exchange dubious glances, when Rose throws herself at Rey in an embrace, and then drags a slightly embarrassed Finn into the bed as well. 

Rey learns quickly that her baby has passed. She learns for certain when she asks Maz Kanata at last if she can see her child, and Maz Kanata silently takes her hand and squeezes it. 

The other eyes and ears in the castle have not been so sympathetic. Rey swallows the stone that rises in her throat. “What did it look like?” she asks tentatively.

“Beautiful,” Maz says, without hesitation. Then, “ _small,_ but _beautiful_.” Her eyes narrow shrewdly. “Do not believe what the others say,” she warns. “It did not pass because of anything that _you_ did.”

Rey waits to learn the reason for why this happened, but Maz Kanata releases her hand to end the conversation. To the common people all things have _meaning_ , things said and unsaid. Children are still-born or malformed, sometimes, because of the _mother’s_ sin — because she has not been faithful to the church or to her husband.

If it could not be her own fault, then would the fault belong to her husband? Luke Skywalker, a _knight_ fit for Arthur’s table, _renounced_ _King Ren_ and declared him _unworthy_ , and was _struck down_ for it. What creature could kill the Knights of his own order, his father, and then his uncle? How else would a simple bastard daughter conceive the body of a _monster_ , if not by divine punishment?

To these questions did her husband at last return to his castle.

.

Rey does not expect to be summoned. She heard stories of men who did not touch their women after they have spawned children. When she examines herself, she feels her body is not so supple anymore. The flesh around her tender, milk-engorged breasts and her tummy is loose and nacreous. If she were exiled to the desert wastes at this very moment, she is certain that she would _perish_. For this, she bites back tears. She feels she has been irreversibly changed by _him_ , whereas he is for the most part left untouched. If he is unsatisfied with his queen, he can take a mistress. He can recognize the son she bears as his own and leave his wife in obscurity, or exile her or even _poison_ her if she _displeases_ him so.

So she is _surprised_ when a messenger knocks on her door, to fetch her from her bed, and deliver her to him. It is late in the night, and the harried messenger has had instructions to wake the queen post-haste. Rey wears a silk sleeping gown, and her brown hair trails loosely down her back. The messenger raps on the door to the king’s room before taking his leave, wishing his lady a brisk goodnight. He takes his light with him.

Her scalp prickles in the darkness. She is afraid of this accursed room. To all the castle Kylo Ren is a cold and ruthless king, but in this single room he is a man who partakes in drink and satisfies his carnal desires upon his wife. Her legs burn with the desire to run away, but the door swings open. A dark eye appears in the crack, assessing her for a moment. Then the door swings inwards. “You may enter,” he murmurs.

Too late. Rey swallows thickly and steps inside. A fire burns on the hearth.

The animal pelt has been removed, and is replaced by a larger, intricately woven rug that is soft beneath her slippers. The door creaks shut behind her, trapping her inside. Rey tenses as his hand brushes over the small of her back.

She had forgotten how tall he is, how broad in the shoulders. She can’t bring herself to look at his face. She _knows_ what will happen next and her dread is like a knot inside of her.

He hovers before her. Through his open tunic, Rey focuses on his weakness: the bruising over his ribs, the cut on his jaw, the audible breathing through his reset nose. His red lips part, and he says, in a low voice, “You’ve stained your dress.”

Rey blinks in confusion, then looks down. Wet blots appear over the front of her nightgown. She crosses her thin arms over her chest to hide herself. Kylo laughs, a suppressed sound, before wiping his hand over his smiling mouth. Blushing furiously, Rey looks up into his eyes. There are lines at the corners of his eyes and on his forehead, where there were none before. The color of his irises is as rich as honey. His hand falls from his mouth to his side. 

It occurs to Rey that he could be sober. The air around him is fragrant with the sweat of his body, and soap.

“You _are_ a beauty,” he says, stepping _close_ to her. “I have missed you _so_.”

How could he say that, when he once had Kira? How could he smile so, when she has lost his heir? “You don’t mean that,” she answers, smiling up at him, _unsure_.

“You think me a liar,” he says, brow furrowing. Before she can correct herself, he crouches down. Her legs sweep out from under her, and she _falls_ \- into his open arms. “Do you know,” he asks sadly, “what is the _punishment_ , for such a _grave_ offense?”

Rey is delivered onto her wedding bed, before her husband crawls in beside her on his hands and knees. He grasps her wrists in his hands, and pins her body down beneath his greater weight. Rey writhes beneath him, going red in the face. To her husband, her distress is a source of great amusement; he grins crookedly and laughs like a boy. _You can’t escape, you can’t escape_ , he sings.

“ _Please stop, my lord!_ ” Her begging voice is high and reedy in her own ears. “ _Kylo!_ ”

His hands slide down her wrists, then down her back. Rey feels and hears a _ripping_ sound, the sound of threads plucked from their weaves. Sharply he tugs the gown lower until her breasts are bared. With a muffled sound, his dark and heavy head drops over her chest. His hair obscures his face, but Rey feels the wetness of his tongue and then a _tugging_ motion as he pulls her teat into his lips. At once she realizes: her husband is _suckling_ her.

She swallows down the anxiety in her throat. Rey had never received any suggestion that a man could feed from his woman; the midwives only taught her to squeeze the unspent milk from her breast, to relieve the pain. If Kylo had been there, would he have drunk from her in the baby’s place? For some reason her eyes begin to sting.

With a noise of complaint, her husband indicates that he is dissatisfied with his meager drink. His mouth releases her nipple, so that he may lay her upright against the headboard and the pillows. Then he lays his head upon her lap to suckle from her. His head is warm against her lap, and his lips are _soft_. His eyes are half-lidded in his satisfaction, and she can see each graceful sweep of his eyelashes. Despite her trepidation, warmth pools in her core, beneath his head. Her toes curl against the soft mattress and she shifts uncomfortably. But Rey does not want to give him any encouragement, that he might find his carnal relief upon her.

He sighs through his nose. When next he speaks, his breath pebbles her breast. “Must I _ask_ _you_ to touch me?” he asks. He glares up at her accusingly, from her lap. 

Nervous, Rey takes her trembling hand and waves it over the top of his head. His hair is soft, and glossy in the light from the hearth. His eyes roll to her offending hand, and his lips press into an unhappy line. 

“ _I’m sorry_.” Rey clutches at her bared chest to hide herself from his eyes — a direct _denial_ of her king and her husband, but she can’t help it. Kylo sits upright. He’s so tall, she doesn’t think she’ll ever stop being scared of _him_ or his _needs_. She doesn’t think she’ll ever be _worthy_ of him, or _capable_ of giving him what he desires. She will never be _Kira_. Rey swipes at her eyes with the back of her hand.

He sighs. “What is there to be sorry for,” he asks. “Come now; stop your _pretty tears_.” He cups her chin in his hand. His voice drips with honeyed indulgence. “We will make _another_ one, sweet pet,” he promises. “If that one _fails_ , then we will try _again_.”

His voice is so tender, that she can barely grasp the meaning behind his words. Horrified, her eyes raise to meet his. Then she twists her face out of his grasp. His sober expression falters, then he smiles again. He truly is a _different_ creature from other men.

“Your nursemaids tell me,” he ventures, “that you cry out in the night — but not for _me_ , no.” He sighs through pursed lips, and turns his gaze towards his trimmed nails. “Once you spawn a _girl_ , you have my _consent_ to name it _Kira_.”

Was this some form of joke? How could he invoke _her_ name so - so _carelessly_?

“... Why do you look at me, so?” he asks, frowning at her. “You _miss_ her, correct?”

Rey nods, dumbly. _Don’t you?_ she wonders.

He shakes his head and says, “It is a _wonder_ , to me. She spoke of you, as if her father had chanced upon a piece of _desert trash_ along his return from Jakku. Do you not remember, when she misbehaved, how you were _beaten_ and _flogged_ in her stead?”

“Kira could be unkind, but I - everyone,” _loved her_ , Rey means to say, but the words catch on her lips. 

He rolls his shoulders.

“You kissed each other,” Rey blurts out. “I saw you. You -“ she swallows thickly. “You rode in _her_ name. At the tourney.”

His eyes narrow. “That was a very long time ago,” he remarks. “Every _fucking Knight_ rode in her name; it was her _father’s_ tourney. You were just a _child_ , and a _bastard girl_ ,” he says, smiling fondly. “If I rode in your name, it would have been... _distasteful_.” He raises a finger and taps his cheek. “ _You_ gave _me_ a token of your favor.”

She remembers: _Her brother-to-be Kylo rode towards her, tall and dark, upon his massive horse. She was busy making flower crowns; she did not care much for tourneys because Kira and her friends would bully her. But Kylo was dressed in the regalia of a Knight: full armor save for the helmet, which he kept tucked underneath his arm. He asked her for some sort of token, but Rey had not a kerchief or scarf or even a scrap of clothing save her ugly and dusty tunic. She was not even good at flower crowns. Instead he knelt down, and she pressed a kiss for good luck against his rough cheek. She was bewitched by his dark beauty and his gentleness, and later she prayed very much that he would win, so much so that she went to the tourney anyways, and cheered as he knocked men off their mounts. Each time his visor swiveled her way, Rey assumed that he did not know where Kira sat._

_“Oh,”_ she says, sweat breaking upon her brow. She clutches her arms tighter around her body, embracing herself for some meager comfort.

“Kira planned to marry you off to a _dwarf_ ,” he adds. “Since the decision would fall to me, I imagined giving you away, _perhaps_ , to one of your little friends: the one that _travels_ so often, or the one of them that _prefers men_.” He sets his hand down on her thigh, making her flinch. His hot palm drags down the inside of her leg, beneath the fabric of the nightgown. “Perhaps you would have made a better _mistress_ , than a little _queen_ ,” he says. 

At his terrible words and his touch, Rey _shudders_.

He makes a decision, in that moment: he crawls before his wife and drags her from the headboard by her thighs, so she lay flat on her back before him, her chestnut brown hair haloing her head. 

“Kylo?” she asks weakly. 

“Yes, sweetling?” he says, putting a smile on his face.

She licks her lips. “Are you a changeling?”

Is he offended by the question? His brow raises.

“I won’t mind,” she adds softly, to try to balm his ego. “I’ll keep it, a secret...”

There is a long pause where Rey worries whether or not she will be punished. He looms over her, silent, pensive. 

“You will?” he asks, in a hushed voice. After a pause, Rey bobs her head. Kylo Ren glances this way and that, as if searching for prying eyes, before nodding. Her eyes widen into saucers. “ _Such a clever girl_ ,” he sighs, pressing a kiss to her bare knee. 

“Did - did you really kill your father?” she asks next. When Kylo nods, there is surprise but also a tinge of _relief_ : so Han was never _really_ his father in the first place. That makes the sin of patricide only _slightly_ forgivable. All of his ignoble transgressions and his horrid strength and his aloofness are now all slightly more forgivable, given that he is not so human after all. She brings her hand to her face and bites her thumb. Why, do his ears not _jut out_ from his head, like that of an elf?

“Is the _real_ Kylo still alive?” Rey asks.

He is half-distracted by the removal of his trousers. Once his cock springs free, she shrinks back. He is fully erect, seed dribbling from the flared tip. Perhaps all changeling men are so frighteningly endowed? He pushes Rey’s knees up, and lowers his face near her bare sex. His breath is warm against the sensitive flesh. “Benjamin?” he blurts out, voice muffled. “Yes. _Yes_ , he _could_ be.” 

Her questions consume her — _Where is he, Is he safe, Is he happy living with the fair folk?_ She knows the name and shapes it with her lips: _Benjamin_. She has heard it said somewhere before... Does Lady Organa know that her _true_ son, her _good_ son is _lost_ to the world? Does he miss is mother and father and uncle, or does he live in perfect bliss away from mortal troubles?

As Rey is distracted, her husband’s fingers part the _seam_ between her legs. He lowers his head and before Rey can worry at what he is looking at so intently, he draws his tongue from the bottom, to the _top_ of her flower. Rey cries out in shock, her pale claws digging rivulets in the bedsheets. She throws her head back, legs twitching in his hands as he does it again. The sensation mounts her. When he laps at her, she exclaims _oh, oh!_ , in ignorance of her wanton voice. Thoughts of poor Benjamin and his fairies evaporate from her haloed head. 

Her body shudders beneath his hands, and she rolls her hips fruitlessly. A crest breaks across her and she feels her _release_ drip down her bottom. For a moment she is terrified that she has peed on her king, but he only raises his head and licks his glistening lips. His darkened eyes meet hers. 

Rey hides her face in a pillow as he climbs over her conquered form. Her rosy breasts itch with his dried saliva and shudder with each labored breath she draws, but these entice only a gentle kiss to each. Into the shell of her ear, he says, “Benjamin wouldn’t love you as well as _I_ do, little one.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arc 2!!  
> Rey sees more unglamorous sides of queen-dom, and her mystical, magical, evil, faerie(?) knight-king!!  
> (Also: in this chapter, more allusions to Christianity/The Church, bc this is Ye Olde Medieval Star Wars, and I'm not too familiar with Star Wars religions except for Star Wars: A Christmas Special. It won't go any further than oaths, Snoke, and holidays, but just FYI.)
> 
> Thank you to all commenters who gave me ideas and readers who supported this one-shot! I luv u guys <3 ;w;

_So, he is a demon._

Rey takes a sharp breath to clear her head and her heart. Courage is not a womanly trait, but then again, the _thing_ that she is about to do reeks more of folly than virtue. The bards will sing of her hubris, if her husband doesn’t carve out their tongues. Look at how her temple glistens; her hands and feet are so damp, that she would not be surprised if she starts to spontaneously bleed.

Rey paces the halls fretfully, ignoring the eyes of passing guards and servants. She wears a grey dress with a modestly cut neckline, and a silver sash wrapped around her waist; when she was a girl, she envied the brighter colors of the other great-houses. The purple of House Holdo, the blue of Skywalker. The sash around her waist is a remnant of Kira, like many things. Rey was too nervous to object when the maids wrapped it around her waist; she did request something ‘ _formal-looking_ ’. It is another shiny, silken bauble that Rey will worry to pieces with her scavenger’s hands.

 _What would Kira do?_ Rey wonders. Oh, what a _terrible_ _thing_ that Kylo said... Rey suspects that her older sister would have been able to match his cruelty, to keep his excesses in check. When he said he did not care for her, Rey plainly wondered exactly what form his _true_ love would take. It was not simply kisses at tournaments; there was a time that he wore _silver_ around his neck, her sister’s color. There were poems of love and the briefest touches between them; there was even one _secret_ song... Rey only knew of love from stories and from her dear friends, but the false-love that Kylo held for her sister had certainly _fooled_ Rey.

Kira Palpatine is probably laughing at her, from her shining throne in Heaven. At night, in her bed, Rey hears a voice hissing in her ears. _Bastard queen. Is it everything you ever wanted, you little bastard queen?_

.

Only weeks ago was she so fresh and optimistic. Her husband had just returned from a months-long campaign, and he had confessed his _preference_ for _her_. Most of all, his _secret_ consumed her thoughts. 

_Benjamin!_

Though he did not know it, Kylo gave her a _gift_. With that singular name, her narrow and sorrowful world brightened. The thought of Benjamin and the Fair Folk brought her back to that wonderful part of her childhood, the part where her father delivered her from bondage and brought her to that shining and beautiful castle, where fields exploded into flowers and fruits ripened on the branches of innumerable trees, and where she would spend all her days and never starve again. She had so many questions, but her husband quickly turned them away, and found business away from her. Rey needed to speak to someone in complete confidence. Once again, Maz Kanata appeared to her in her time of need.

The crone intimidated most of the residents of the castle, except for Finn, who roughly shared the same continent of origin. Maz Kanata was wise in so many things, and she was no spy of the king, so the allegations would not circle back to Rey herself. So after a sworn oath to secrecy, Rey described the _wonder_ of her husband. 

Funnily enough, Maz Kanata was not familiar with a changeling or even _faeries_ , and she kept insisting that Rey was ‘making excuses’. Rey needed to explain that Kylo was not human, nor did he inhabit a human body; he felt nothing when he killed his own kin, and his strength and cruelty came from his faerie blood. Sadness and guilt were foreign concepts to him; the ‘love’ that he had shown Kira must have been an act of imitation. 

Maz Kanata could have been a statue, so still was she. Rey wasn’t certain that she was listening. Then, the crone’s jaw moved, in a slow, contemptuous way. ‘... _So, he is a demon_ ,’ she said.

.

It is that last thought, of Finn, which pushes open the doors. And as she looks around the room, at all the cold faces turned towards her, instead she sees Rose and Maz Kanata, and even Lady Leia and poor old Han. But all of them fade away when at last she meets _his_ eyes. He sits at the head of the war table, directly across from her. His face is carefully blank. A mustache shades his upper lip. He wears a black vest, with a pelt draped over his broad shoulders. All of her womanly courage flickers like a light on the end of a tapered candle.

“I need to speak to you.” Her words are addressed to her husband, despite the presence of the audience. She wears grey, the color of her House, and not her husband’s chosen black. That is the point, but the cowardly little animal inside her chest scurries around in terror.

The council — her father’s men and Snoke’s, murmur amongst each other. Father Snoke himself lifts his upper lip in a leer, revealing long, grey teeth. Slumped in his chair, he looks like the reanimated corpse of a giant, in a priest’s vestments. Because of him, Rey has not set foot inside the church grounds since the day of her wedding. 

“Kylo Ren.” His voice rasps inside her ears. “At least your _queen_ still seeks your counsel.”

The fact that he referred to his king by his name isn’t lost on Rey. Her eyes flicker between the two of them. She had thought that they were friends, or allies, at least. Here, Kylo doesn’t spare him a glance. 

“Speak,” he orders.

She anticipated him dismissing his council, or dismissing her. Perhaps he means to humiliate her. “There is a man in my father’s dungeons who does not belong there. I _beseech_ you, that you release him.” 

Her husband could be a painting on the wall. “There are _a number_ of men, in _my_ dungeon,” he replies evenly. “Have you come to _champion_ the _causes_ of _murderers_ and _thieves_ , _sweetling_?”

Rey stalks up towards the council table, in between two men whose names escape her now — Kira would know. She holds up one finger. “ _This_ one is imprisoned unjustly,” she says. 

“He spoke _treason_ against me.” 

“Oh _please_. He told a _joke_.” Murmurs erupt amongst the council; this audience is made of a dozen or so men, the most notable in the kingdom or at least to the throne. A muscle in Kylo’s jaw sets, and his brow lowers. Suddenly, Rey learns that she’s humiliating _him_. 

“Is it a _joke_ because it comes from the mouth of your little _friend_?” he asks darkly. “Or is it a _joke_ because it is aimed at _my head_?”

“Father once told me of his boyhood, when the law decreed that profanity be punished by split lips and the cutting of tongues,” Rey says. “This, simply for _cussing_ on Sundays. You are _monstrous_ for holding these standards to yourself.”

Amongst the council, Father Snoke guffaws the loudest. As for the king, red crawls up the bridge of his nose and the tips of his ears. His eyes are boreholes in his pale face. 

“ _If I free him_ ,” Kylo shouts, then recovers himself. “If I free him, then by rights I must free the _others_.” He shrugs his shoulders. “The bards, the _woodcarvers_. One of these winter nights, we should invite one of those merry bands that know _The Bastard Queen._ ” 

Now she feels her own face going red. 

Kylo leans back in his seat, basking in her discomfort. “Better yet,” he says, raising a hand, “ _that_ one, and _The Girl From Niima.”_

They make _songs_ about her? She tries to speak, but her throat crackles. Her eyes flicker about the room, registering each pockmarked face gazing back at her. There are no allies here.

 _What would Kira do_ , she asks herself, but she can already imagine the answer. A nobleman’s daughter once made an off-handed comment about the princess. The rumor was that she was made to swallow a needle; the nobleman and his family moved far away after that. Kira’s enemies did not thrive for very long. Everyone loved her so.

 _Will I be like you?_ Rey asks the beautiful, shining memory of her sister. 

After a moment, she chooses her answer. “I’m sure you could release a _choir_ in time for _Christmas_ , _Lord Ren_ ,” she says. “Your gracious mercy _precedes you_ , _Lord Ren_.”

A muscle in his eye twitches. Rey waits for his counter, and even the council holds its breath — but the silence stretches on. His expression promises _death_. Rey thrusts out her chin in defiance, but inwardly she is again the little scavenger-slave, hiding from a beating. She manages a polite curtsy, before turning and walking out of the room. 

The walls of the vestibule close in around her. Soon, she is running; her hands grasp the ends of her dress to prevent her falling. It is unseemly of a queen to run about the castle like a child, but in her mortal fear she has forgotten the manners drilled into her. She isn’t sure if she will live to walk these halls another day.

.

If she sees her friends, will he kill them, too? Will he put them in the dungeons, or send them into exile, like his own mother? Finn, Rose, and even Maz Kanata are all she has left to call _friends_ in this castle. Rey imagines that hurting them would be _simple_ for her husband. 

Despite the fire in the hearth, a chill racks her body, curled up beneath the blankets. Fall and winter are her _weakest_ seasons; she was born in desert climate, in an eternal _scorching_ summer. Where Kylo Ren is hard and tireless, her own strength fades with the sun’s. It was bitterly fortunate that the baby came in warmer weather; if it had taken _later_ in the year, then the king would most likely seek out a _third_ bride... 

An ache pulses inside of her abdomen at the memory. Her hand smooths over her soft stomach. She was _angry_ at Maz Kanata and the other midwives, at first. Rey wished she could have seen _it_ ; she’s not so fragile as they think her to be. There were disfigured babies born in Jakku. Them and the other unwanted ones, born to beggar women and pleasure slaves, left outside to be picked at by dogs and carrion birds.

These memories of Jakku gird her fears and send the memory of heat into her veins. Her eyelids grow empty, and her mind empties. Her final, cowardly thought is of being torn from her bed by soldiers. How else would a king check his unruly wife?

.

Sleep flees from her. Her eyes flicker, seeing nothing it is so _dark_. Her muscles in her limbs stiffen and strain, for she dare not move. _He_ is here.

The weight of his body sinks the end of the bed. Rey _waits_ , her heart trembling inside of her chest. She waits for the dagger plunged into her chest one or twenty times, as he had done to poor Han Solo, or the knife drawn across her throat. Sweat breaks out on her palms, and her fingers curl and stiffen beneath the blankets. 

Why does he not _move_? Surely he knows that she is awake and that his advantage of surprise is only slightly diminished. If she screams, no self-preserving knight will come to her rescue; by now, all the castle must know that Kylo has _tired_ of her. All the castle must know that soon she will lie beside Kira in their father’s crypt, if they should grace a bastard girl with that privilege.

A sigh cracks the looming silence. When at last he speaks, his voice is soft, and dry: “You are a foolish little thing.”

It is an admonishment. There is no bitterness in his words. 

“You are no _queen_ ,” he goes on, “you are meant to be a _pet_. You are meant to eat cakes and wear pretty dresses, with baubles in your hair. I have erred grievously in wedding you.”

He has recited the Psalms with more vigor than now, but Rey feels the insults to her honor. These do not sound like the words before an impending assassination, so Rey pushes her head from off her pillow, uncurling her body beneath the blankets. “I did not have any choice,” she answers slowly. She cannot see him nor his subtle expressions, but he is silent. Well if he is so _grievously_ disappointed, then this was his mistake to correct, Rey thinks. “Will you... take a mistress?” she asks stiffly, before feeling a pit form inside her stomach.

 _Ha_ , “You do not hear me,” he says, “ _you_ should have been the mistress. Do you not understand?”

“You’ve said so before...”

“The jokes, and the _tavern songs_ — _The Girl from Niima_ — these are acceptable tributes for bastard girls and whores. Not for _queens_ ,” he says. “Not for _you_.”

A bitter smile forms on Rey’s lips. Once again she is reminded of how _inferior_ she is to Kira. “But they are just _jokes,_ and _songs._ They are mere _words_. _”_

“Words and oaths made me a knight, and then they made me _king_ ,” he says. “Words and oaths _gave you to me_.” The mattress sinks further. Her husband shifts closer to her on the bed. “Your friend will die not for a joke, but because _you set yourself against me._ ”

_So, he is a demon_.

Hot terror make lights flash before her eyes. “ _No_!” she cries. Her hand lashes out and grips his clothes. “Kylo, take - take your _revenge_ on _me_! _I_ am the one who wronged you!”

His hand settles over hers; he tries to pry off her damp fingers. “It is not revenge.” In afterthought, he says, “You will not be made to attend.”

Her mind reels. She knows the spectacle of public executions; she has seen her husband’s justice. Rey bursts into horrified tears. Rapidly she tries to imagine what to do, of what _Kira_ or Leia, or any queen or princess would do. But Kira would respond to violence with _superior_ violence, and Rey has already run out of pretty words to bleat at him. As her fingers are plucked from his shirt, instead she grabs his hands. His flesh is a shock of warmth against her own icy skin. Kylo freezes.

Rey freezes as well, waiting for him to pull away — she has just touched the king without his express permission. Then she realizes that if he pulls away, he will return to his regular nightly business, and by morning her friend will be executed. No, the king must be delayed at any cost.

Rey tugs at his hand, towards her chest. His long fingers uncurl, letting his palm smooth against her soft breast, separated only by the silk shift. Rey inhales sharply. Her hand folds over his; she can feel her cowardly heart threading beneath his fingers.

 _What are you doing,_ he asks, in a voice barely above a whisper.

“... My bed is cold,” she confesses.

“... I _know_ what you are doing,” he says lowly. “You _think_ you know, but you _don’t_.”

Before terror silences her, she goes on as if she hadn't heard him. “I don’t make... _milk_ , anymore, but if you put an... another, _baby_...” Her voice thickens and her face goes hot with shame. 

He tries to pull away, but she holds him fast. “I could _pleasure_ you, with my - _my mouth_ ,” she adds. Her nursemaids instructed her on the virtues of a maiden, of being humble and hardworking and quiet. Now she is _begging_ for her king to _lie_ with her, like a _whore_.

Kylo’s hand tightens on her breast. The blankets slide off her body, as he slips into the bed beside her. The mattress sinks beneath his greater weight. Rey lets her hands fall from his arm, and he releases her just the same.

As he positions himself against the headboard, the wood knocks against the wall. Rey reaches out blindly to where she thinks his trousers are, all while wetting her lips anxiously. Hands ensnare her wrists, like manacles; her legs scrabble and kick for purchase, before entwining around his hard waist. Her own fingers link just behind the nape of his neck; she can feel his soft, wiry hair. The scent of his warm body fills her lungs. 

“How do you see in the dark?” she wonders aloud. “Is it your changeling eyes?”

There’s a second of silence, and then he says _yes_.

Rey moves her hand, and finds herself tracing the shape of a wide, well-formed ear. A flash of wonder usurps her regular fear. “Will you live forever, like the Fair Folk?” she asks.

“No,” he says, more firmly. “No; _you_ will outlive _me_ , dearest.”

Only Kylo would know her expression in that moment. Before she can speak, lips press against hers. The hairs on his upper lip scratch her face; her words are stolen in the kiss.

His hands slide up her thigh, hitching her silk nightgown to her waist. He pinches her waist most cruelly, to make her rise on her knees so that he may slip down his trousers. The hot spade of his manhood brushes against her sex. Rey hisses; tears come to her eyes as he pushes her _down_ upon him, _skewering_ her. Then he smooths his hands over her trembling, wetted buttocks, whispering praise.

“I should have imprisoned all of your little friends,” he chides breathlessly. “I would have consigned them all to death, if it would have thrown open the doors to your sweet _cunt_.”

Her teeth clack together at his terrible words. Her fingers curl into grasping claws, but his shirt does not fray or break beneath them. He snorts in bemusement; her anguish entertains him. In his hands he squeezes and kneads the flesh of her buttocks.

Rey lifts herself up on her knees, and then down again. She has seen whores mounted on top of their customers, with and without dresses or rags to hide their acts from sight. It helps that it is so dark, that she could not see his monstrous piece or his sickening, leering face. Now it’s as if he’s a stranger, or even the soft, sweet Benjamin who was lost to the mortal world. 

Her body shudders, and it releases a soft, slick liquid that makes it easier to ride him. In the dark, a moan passes through his lips. Her body tightens around him.

Her husband cums inside her; and as she slows her hips to milk him and drag out the night, he grabs her thighs and shoves her down onto his cock, spewing the rest of his seed _deep_ inside her. Rey sees stars flash in her eyes, and she cries out in shock. His arms loop around her damp back, pulling her tight against him. 

The cold, the autumn and fall, all lay discarded and forgotten in the trenches of Rey’s mind. Her husband’s shirt is smashed against her cheek, his heart thrumming inside like a trapped bird. When Rey raises her head, the movement must convince him that she is trying to escape, for his arms tighten around her. Her lips trace the divot of his collarbone, and the lines of his exposed throat, ending in his jaw. If she were an assassin...

Tentatively, Rey draws kisses up his neck, making her husband shudder. He murmurs something incomprehensible to her ears, and then he shifts his waist, forcing a spike of pleasure into her. More liquid seeps down her cunt.

.

Each darkened hour brings a new session of breeding. Even the slightest brush of her hand or her lips whets his appetite and keeps him in her bed. At first she is on top of him, then pressed beneath him, then laid on her stomach. His mouth is a hungry, wet maw that surprises her at each turn. 

The weak sun at last filtering through the window is meaningless to her; Rey is mounted on her husband with her eyes closed, and her hair matted to her back. 

Kylo is the arm thrown over her breasts, and the nose pressed squarely into her shoulder blade. He is still _inside_ of her. He will _always_ be _inside_ of her, she realizes.

A stirring at the door drags her from the depths of sleep. Her eyes adjust to the midday light. Some bright, stray eyes stare back at her from the doorway. They wouldn’t have normally dared, but the king is needed. Kylo is needed. And now he is indisposed. Another little _humiliation_. He will be so very _cross_ when he wakes up, once he peels himself away from her.

The door is quickly pulled shut. But now, she supposes, there will be a new stanza to _The Girl from Niima_ , or _The Bastard Bride_ or _Queen_ , or however these witty songs and stories go.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> henlo - loooong chapter bc: Rey tries to play at being a queen again, which Kylo just luuuuvs so much!!!  
> This isn't Halloween-ish, but the chapter just occurred to me over the last few days, which is spoopy for me   
> o.o'

In the days of Kira, it was improper to associate with the _bastard_ _sister_ , as Kylo himself pointed out. Rey’s mother was a _whore_ and a _slave_ , a fact that never went without mention. The gentle women of the court felt scandalized at the mere sight of her; Kira herself was thoroughly mortified. To think, that a _princess_ and this _whore’s_ daughter shared the same blood, was a mortal insult. Since the very presence of the bastard sister was intolerable, Kira made it into a game — a game of constant _torment_.

The rules of this game changed with each day, to Rey’s misfortune. Sometimes she was pricked with needles, or slapped, or took the punishment for missing baubles and food. There was hair pulling, and being locked in rooms. The girls who most desired Kira’s favor were the most cruel. It seemed that the most that anyone would do was ignore it; the men would turn away or look down at their feet. Kylo was the one exception. The servants had no choice, for Kira was their superior and any words from her lips could destroy their lives. Allies were few for Rey. Few, but beloved.

So it hurts her, most of all, when her good friend turns from her work and said to her thus, “ _I wish you’d kept your trap shut_.”

Rey’s mouth opens, then closes, in shock. Her hands fold around her midsection, not yet quickened by the work of the king. Rey had went down to the kitchens, to visit her friend Rose. This was not the welcome that Rey had been expecting.

Rose brings up an arm and wipes her eyes with her rolled-up sleeve, her hands being soiled with flour. Then she hisses out a frustrated sob. Her round face glistens with tears. “I should’ve gone with them,” Rose whispers. “I wish somebody had woken me up.”

“... I would have missed you,” Rey murmurs, but Rose turns her head away in disgust. Rey shivers, and she bites her lower lip to keep in the swell of emotion beneath her breast.

“Did they tell you where they’re going at least?” Rose asks, before resting her back against the edge of the table. “If I have a good horse, I can...”

“ _What_ will you do?” Rey demands, alarmed. “It’s the dead of winter. There will be packs of starving wolves patrolling the roads, and God knows what else. _Who_ would go with you?” Rose refuses to look at her still, so Rey scoffs. “Finn said... Finn said south,” she suggests lamely.

Rose had a sister, too, once. Like Finn, they came from a far-off land, like the ones in stories where knights stayed monsters and met strange peoples. The Tico sisters were strangers to the castle, akin to Finn and Rey. Paige was the elder sister that Rey had wished for: patient, and kind. Though her funeral was not as large as Kira’s, it did not lack in grief. Rey had never hoped to see Rose so dispirited again in their lifetimes.

Rose has a streak of righteousness, unlike Rey. If she were a boy, she could’ve made a soldier — one of those that makes a thousand oaths and swears his life on some prince’s dream, and somehow keeps to all of them. Instead, she was born a woman; her futile righteousness turns to bitterness, which mixes with her other dark emotions. She was angry when her sister died, and she is angry now.

“It would be better to die on the road,” Rose states flatly. “I would rather that my body goes to those poor wolves.”

“No!” Rey reaches out and touches her friend’s shoulder, but she is shrugged off contemptuously. “I will deal with Armitage Hux!”

“As you have stated last time,” Rose mutters disdainfully. “Do you not listen to yourself, _Kingmaker_? Now the whole castle thinks that I am _his_ _woman_. The whole castle thinks that he has his _rights_ to me; they even laugh about it.”

Rey has had enough of rumors. “I will have his tongue carved out!”

Rose turns to her; there is malice in her dark eyes. “I wonder what will happen next time? Will I _also_ have a _wedding_?” Rose asks sweetly.

Rey recoils as if slapped. Tears well in her eyes. The sound of wings beat against an unseen cage. _You think I am a whore_ , she realizes, as she looks upon her once-friend. 

Rose looks at her for a moment, and then places her hands onto the table, where the dough sits. When she speaks, her words are dry, like the recitation of a prayer. “If he touches me _again_ ,” she says, “I will bite off his fingers. And I will kill him, and then myself when your King seeks to hang me. So do not worry about me anymore, _your highness_.” 

Rey steps backwards, and then again, before dipping her head and leaving the kitchens.

.

_“Oh!_ ” Finn cried. “There he is!”

It was so cold, that a man wept tears against the blinding wind. But the whipping torch revealed a shining smile upon Finn’s dark face; his were tears of joy. 

The shadow before them lumbered slowly, uncertainly, as if his legs could give out at any moment. 

“C’mon man,” Finn demanded. “Before they change their minds...” Without a word of warning, Finn ran towards the straggling figure, and he took the light and warmth of the torch. Rey pulled her furs closer around her, feeling content just to watch them. The warm light illuminated a tattered cloak, drawn like a hood over the straggler’s head. Finn grasped him gently around the shoulders. They walked slowly, like a son guiding his elderly grandfather forward.

When they neared the horses, the hood raised. A gaunt, wasted face stared back at Rey. Her hand fluttered to her mouth to hide her shock. Slowly, she searched that face for any trace of that handsome rogue, Poe Dameron. An unkempt beard colored his narrow face; his skin hung sallow from his cheekbones. Never before had he gone without a witty comment, but he remained silent; he stared at Rey, without seeming to register her presence. 

“ _Look at what he’s don_ e,” Finn demanded, in a low voice. Rey looked at Finn, who kept his eyes trained on Poe Dameron. Finn had barely looked or spoken to Rey for tonight, this supposedly fortunate night. 

_Is he addressing me?_ Rey wondered. _Does he think that I am responsible for this?_ Rey squeezed her eyes shut against the burning wind. When she opened her eyes, she saw Finn’s squared jaw, and a rare touch of anger in the set of his mouth. Rey swayed on her feet, alarmed. Hurt. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. She looked to what was once Poe Dameron, and repeated, “I’m sorry,” in a faint voice. 

Finn dipped his head, rubbing Poe Dameron’s hunched shoulder. Poe needed to be hefted onto his horse, before Finn set off. There were brief, poisoned goodbyes. Rey watched them until the night absorbed their torchlight, tears frozen upon her face. This was her husband’s great mercy: exile. 

.

If Kylo could be so cruel, then that would mean that Ben must be all the sweeter, wherever he was now.

Rey walks the halls of her father’s castle, in a daze. It does not make sense to her. Kira alive, and Rey a bastard, and three very good friends. Kira dead, and Rey a queen, and now her friends are scattered to the four winds. 

When Kira was alive, Kylo was Rey’s very good brother; he protected Rey from her sister’s cruelties. Kylo was a prince and a knight, and he knew the meanings of flowers and he fought in tourneys and he sang of love... When Kira was dead, Kylo killed his father and his uncle and his knights. Now he hurts Rey when they lie together. Now he is some sort of _changeling_ , or he has always been a _changeling_ , and oh! He has never loved Kira after all. Rey was born in the desert of Jakku to a slave woman, and now she is Queen, and she has lost a child... Somewhere in the mortal or _fae_ world is Benjamin Solo, the lost son of Leia Organa and Han Solo and the heir to House Skywalker. 

Rey found that she knew exactly where she was going; this was her father’s castle. Her steps gain momentum, and her hands ball into fists. She is going to do a cruel thing now. Rey had made a promise to her good friend, so she will see it done.

.

Armitage Hux is yet another extension of Father Snoke. Rey remembers him as the red-headed man at her wedding; she is still unsure as to his actual function, only that he sticks to Father Snoke like a faithful dog. He is highborn and he fancies himself a monk, if not for the absence of prayer, chastity, and sobriety. His face and his fire-red hair would have made him popular among the noblewomen, but he is known for his bitter tongue. Instead, he takes his pleasure tormenting the servant girls... which was how both he and Rose earned each other’s ire. Now he has earned his Queen’s.

Rey doesn’t know where he hides himself during the day, so instead she asks one of the servants to find him for her. She decides to wait outside of the council room; an audience with Armitage Hux warrants no great chamber. She has tried to be proper and discreet about this, for both Rose’s and his honors, but the man himself outright defied her wishes. 

Rey sees him down the corridor. He wears a black shirt and trousers; as he approaches, he clasps his hands behind his back and smiles. In contrast to her, he is perfectly at ease. “You called for me?” he asks, in a clipped voice. Rey waits for him to come to her. He stops, too close to her, those icy blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

Rey did not know why she believed she could simply _ask_ him to leave Rose at peace. “Why do you look so _pleased_ , Brother Hux?” Rey asks.

He clasps his slender fingers together. “I am _intrigued_ that you would seek the company of a simple yeoman. I have seen more of you than the common man could ever hope to.” That smile stretches obscenely.

“Oh, that is very clever,” Rey says politely. Now she steels herself; she lowers her voice to a soft pitch. “...I remember you from my wedding.”

He swells with reminiscence. One of the worst nights of her life was but a jaunty evening for Brother Hux.

“Yes,” she says. “You said that I have no female relatives, whereas my husband had brothers a-plenty. I remember you, and Luke Skywalker, and poor Han Solo...” The monk’s smile freezes on his face. “... all of the Knights of Ren,” Rey says, sadly. “So few of those, that Lord Ren brought to this castle, remain here today.”

Armitage Hux’s face pales to a sickly color, and his bloodshot eyes flicker away. He leans backwards and clears his throat. Rey leans in, her eyelashes fluttering. She can smell the sweat of his unwashed body, the acrid drink on his breath. “I am trying to protect you,” she murmurs. “You are no sellsword, no fallen knight, but a man of God; I bore you no ill will.”

“What is this,” Hux mutters, his head twisting this way and that. 

“But I have warned you not to _touch_ what is _mine_ ,” Rey says, before taking his sleeve between her fingers. Hux yanks it away, and Rey realizes that it is true: the king’s power clings to her. “...And so I wash my hands of you,” Rey says, tucking her hand into the warmth of her cloak. 

“What is this?” He flashes a smile, looking behind him. “What is this? Kylo would not _kill me_ , not for the sake of a _kitchen girl_.” With wild eyes, he looks to Rey as if searching for reassurance. “No, the Father —. The Father would punish—. The Father would _protect_ me,” he mutters unconvincingly. 

“Goodbye, Armitage Hux,” Rey says, sadly.

At first she thinks that this is the nail in the coffin. Kira used to play these little games, too, when Rey was so new and afraid. Only then could one believe that the punishment for eating another lemon cake was dismemberment.

But Hux is not so new. At first he is afraid, but then his face goes blank. “... This is a trick,” he says, suddenly. He turns to Rey. 

Rey schools her expression, but she is not sure what expression he is searching her for. These court games baffle her.

“This is a trick,” Hux repeats. His eyes narrow shrewdly. “I knew you would be a _handful_ , but no one paid me a bit of mind.” Rey does not like the way he looks at her, so she considers retreat. But just as she steps away, he whips out a hand and grasps the front of her cloak. Her chest slams into his; his narrow face hovers an inch from hers. “I will show you what happens when you _lie_ to me, _Kingmaker._ ”

His eyes glow with a macabre glee that wilts Rey. She tries to step back, but he yanks her roughly. 

“I will show you,” he promises.

Her lip curls. A hot feeling prickles along her back. In a low voice, she says, “ _Release me._ ” He does not, so she hisses, “If I _scream_ , you will be _cut down_ where you stand, _Brother Hux_.”

He recoils, and he is about to speak when heavy footsteps ring out from down the hall. Hux’s eyes widen, and suddenly she’s released before the end of Kylo Ren’s booming voice, “ _What is the meaning of this?_ ”

The king’s pale skin is flushed from exertion, painting his lips an even rosier hue. A dusting of snow crowns his head, and his footsteps drip water onto the floor. The scent of him is cold and sweet. His eyes flicker between Rey and Armitage Hux; slowly, his lip curls over his teeth in his agitation, like a cornered wolf. Rey wonders if she will be the focus of his ire; he is so angry.

Kylo Ren draws a ragged breath. “You have touched my wife,” he declares.

Armitage Hux takes a sidestep away from her. He raises his hands and he says, “She summoned _me_ , Lord Ren. I meant no insult; she had a personal matter to raise with me.”

“You touched my wife,” Kylo repeats. 

“Lord Ren, _forgive_ me, but the lady requested my presence. I would never—.”

Kylo draws his left hand over his breast and grabs the hilt of his sword. 

Hux’s eyes bulge out of his skull. “You wouldn’t,” he chokes out. “You wouldn’t. The Father will _destroy_ you, Kylo Ren, if you continue to take these _liberties_.” Hux slides against the wall, as Kylo draws out Silencer in a wide, red arc. Rey’s hands clasped together. The monk was already running out of the hall.

Kylo turned his head and looked back down the hall, perhaps waiting to see if his quarry would return. As he turned to Rey, he still did not put away his sword. 

The story goes that Kylo Ren was once a fledgling knight, his sword without a name. It was beautiful, once; blessed by the power of Luke Skywalker. The crossguard, and the slender blade glowed white in the sun. It was said that Kylo Ren could not be struck down in the day. 

How times have changed. The blade and crossguard glow red now, in the dead of night.

When Rey stepped backwards, Kylo stepped forward, following her. Silencer pointed to the floor, steering her backwards in a halting dance. Thoughts whirl around her head: that Silencer is for ambush and executions, that he is not retreating nor smiling, and that at last, she is going to die.

Her back touched the doors of the council room. The king advanced. He raised his left hand aloft, and sheathed his sword into the scabbard at his waist. Then he spread his arms wide, as if to embrace her; Rey panicked, as she could not escape for he was now _too close_.

His hands slammed into either side of her; her ears rang with the impact. The doors of her father’s council room groaned. Rey cried out and pushed inside, before running behind the grand table at the center of the room. Kylo stalked in after her, pushing the doors closed. Then he raised a wooden beam between the doors, to bar entry.

Rey skittered to the corner of the room, as watchful as a hare. The man knelt before the hearth; though Rey could not see past the form of his back, an orange flame bloomed. 

Rey heard no striking of flint; he could not have turned the coals with his bare hands, and in this freezing cold all the embers would have gone out. When he turned his head and picked up a log to feed the hearth, in his profile she witnessed his lips moving. _Magic_ , she mouthed, pulling the cloak tighter around her. Excitement prickled along her scalp, muddling her previous sense of fear and foreboding.

“What were you doing, with Armitage Hux?” He brought his hand to the floor, and pushed himself up, the fire now roaring healthily. Heat touched Rey’s chest, beneath her multitudes of furs and cloaks. “I will not ask twice,” he says.

Rey’s throat closed for self-preservation, so she reached a hand to her neck to steady herself. “He threatens my friend,” she confesses. “Now he has threatened _me_. For a supposed _man of God_ , he is exceptionally crude, and _prideful_.” Rey bites her tongue, choosing not to mention Hux’s last fleeting words which were still so fresh in both of their memories.

“And what _secret dealings_ have you made behind my back?” her husband asks.

Her brow furrows. “No, there was nothing like that.”

Kylo turns to face her, the fire illuminating one side of his face and casting the rest in shadow. The snow is gone from his hair and his shoulders. “They call you _Kingmaker_ ,” he says.

Rey struggles to find the thread of this interrogation. “Y-yes, I have been called that.” 

He takes a step and Rey moves as well, to keep the breadth of the table between them. She does not wish to know what will occur when he catches her. “Armitage Hux has referred to you in such a way,” he says. “The women titter over it. Does it please you, dear wife? The name.”

“Not verily,” she says, her nose crinkling. She imagines it to be a reference to another bawdy tavern song. “It is akin to ‘the girl from Niima’,” she says haltingly. She is by the doorway, now. Her eyes flicker towards the beam laid across the doors, which her husband deceptively raised with such ease. She knows the weight of that beam, carved from a noble wood, heavy enough to delay an enemy from bursting inside. If she could shove it very hard so that it frees one of the doors, perhaps she could escape.

Kylo breaks into a dash. Rey cries out as her wrist is squeezed in his hand. Her eyes flicker to where he once was and to the shadow looming over her, and the speed required to trick her senses. 

“Why do you scream?” Kylo asks softly. “I have never raised a hand to you, not to my memory.”

He drags her to the table. Years ago, she was only afforded brief visits to the council room, because it was the domain of men. She would cast her eyes up to her father’s pennant draped on the walls, and brush her hand reverently over her father’s intricate maps and the tallies of her father’s treasury. Sometimes there would be little game pieces carved out of quartz or ivory, which were not toys but instruments to the making of war and the collection of tax. What papers that now lay on that table were swept to the floor.

Appalled, Rey ceased her struggle, which allowed her husband to wrap his hands around her waist. She was lifted into the air and sat on the edge of the table. Rey understood his intentions once he ripped the warm furs from her hands and pushed them behind her. He snorts with derision, grasping the second fur and the wool cloak that she wore underneath. 

Rey tries to push his hands and his mouth away, murmuring _not here, not here_. This is her father’s room; this is the room of her grandfathers before her, those buried beneath the castle or lost beneath an unmarked grave. Her eyes tear across the darkened stone walls that have witnessed so much, and she sees only so many ghosts. This is an affront not only to Kira’s memory, but to the memory of the kingdom.

Kylo, the murderer of his own father, sees none of this, would care for none of this. It is another room besides a bedroom, one supposes. He loosens his trousers, and the weight of Silencer in its scabbard drops them to the floor. 

She grabs his shoulders, attempting to draw his hooded attention. “Kylo, not here!” she whispers, horrified. 

“Be quiet,” he says. He hitches up her dress to her waist and removes her shapeless undergarments; goosebumps prickle on the insides of her thighs. The only protection against the cold is her natural down. Kylo’s arms encompass her. It is an act of cruelty, not compassion — for as he embraces her, he plunges his knife into her most sensitive place. Rey was not prepared, and a miserable sound escapes her lips. A palm smooths over the back of her head, tugging at her hair.

“You could not take all of me on our wedding night,” he murmurs. Lights swim before her eyes. He traps her face between his two large hands; the fire catches in his terrible eyes. When he leans in, his lips steal a kiss. “I was so afraid, that I would _rupture_ you, little one. That you would _bleed,_ and _bleed_ , and that I would be alone. The _fear_ of it — it drove me to the cups...”

He wraps his hands around her back, and his head drapes over her shoulder. Rey feels him pushing towards her; nausea rolls through her. She knows what he is doing, but she has no power to stop it. Instead, she drops her forehead to his chest and prays. That last piece of flesh drives deep into her. Rey releases a shuttered breath, her fingers gripping to his clothes for dear life. 

“Oh?” He breathes the scent of her hair, and runs his hands up and down her back. “Now she wants _more_ of me,” he murmurs, his voice muffled. Sighing, he rests his cheek against the crown of her head. Just the feeling of him sends a wave of feeling through her lower back. When it crests, a shudder wracks her body; fluid courses through her stretched and overstuffed cunt. An instantaneous guilt wracks her; she closes her eyes to her shame. There must be penance for this. There must be penance for living, and breeding, and profaning in the house of your father. Perhaps the laws are different for changelings, but Rey will most certainly suffer for this.

Kylo clutches her shoulders and leans away from her. The bridge of his nose flushes red; through half-lidded eyes, he watches her appraisingly. “Why do you not kiss me?” he asks. “The dungeons are _empty_ of your little friends; the rest do not particularly draw my ire, except for that old, orange _hag_.” 

“ _No_ ,” she whimpers. Is he making threats or is this idle talk? Oh, the _things_ that Maz Kanata mutters underneath her breath were a thousand times more than Poe Dameron’s joke, but she was a skilled midwife and merely an old, homesick woman. He could not be so petty. 

“Am I but an _instrument_ to your _grand_ machinations, _little queen_? Do you _use_ me, in the way the _Emperor_ , your _great-grandfather_ , _used_ _Darth Vader_?”

“ _No._ ” Rey shakes her head. “ _No, Kylo_.”

He draws back, but only slightly. Her toes curl, and her body burns like a furnace. To her grief, he draws their bodies together again. “Always remember,” he says, “you were made queen on the end of my cock. Do not forget this.”

Rey’s teeth clack together. _Yes_ , she chokes.

Kylo grabs her chin. Terrified, Rey purses her lips and leans in, to brush her lips against his jaw. His breath hisses out of his mouth. “Do I hurt you?” he asks. 

He draws away, a trail of white slipping out between their bodies. He turned her onto her stomach, so that the tips of her shoes brushed the floor. The buns in her hair had come loose, and they drape over her eyes. All the better, for there is nothing that Rey wishes to see. Kylo palms the flesh of her buttocks, squeezing each in his hands; Rey has seen _that_ , too, and she has heard that it hurts very much. 

“You have not yet given me the child you promised,” he says. “You were always weak to the winter.” He approaches, slowly this time. It stings, but she is wetted from their last coupling, and she is no virgin. “You would be much healthier, in a warm bedroom, filled with sweets, little _pet_. No more of these adventures, these scavenger-games. ” Her nails scrabble for purchase, and she grips the fur cloak that lay on the table. _Oh_ , he breathes, once he is sheathed to the hilt inside of her. “Oh; you are a _gift_. This is just where you belong, my sweet.” 

_Yes,_ she mouths, tearfully. _Yes_.


End file.
